The camera's shift and fade, as the credits start to roll (It's almost over)
The lines of a script roll off the tongue lubed in
spit,
This fantasy has a pulse, that's beating me into submission.
Then you arrive in style to amplify the essence
of,
Desperately identify with reflections of strangers.
The chastity of empty eyelids where sunset stripped you,
The cameras
shift and fade, as the credits start to roll.
This fantasy has a pulse, that's f*****g beating me into submission.
But all of this
fake blood, all of this fake blood won't fool death.
Sunset stripped you down, just in time, flowing behind your silhouette.
"Oh
yeah, you gotta love that silhouette man."
I'll colour you in, outside the lines, like you never existed.
Desperately identify with
reflections of strangers.
The chastity of empty eyelids where sunset stripped you,
These are the hooks that keep us hanging
on.
These are the hooks that keep us hanging on.
How predictable was that exit?
The Kind Is Dead.